


Welcome Back

by RegularGhostly



Category: Read Dead Redemption 2, Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Arthur likes it, Chapter 2: Horseshoe Overlook (Red Dead Redemption 2), Dom Arthur, Dom Arthur Morgan, Dom/sub, Gentle Sex, Hurt/Comfort, John is loud, John's in love with Arthur, Light Bondage, M/M, Makeshift Gags, Makeshift Lube, Micah fucking dies because fuck micah, Oral Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Period Typical Bigotry, Porn With Plot, Praise Kink, Sub John, Sub John Marston, confessions during sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2019-08-20
Packaged: 2020-08-11 17:50:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20157637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RegularGhostly/pseuds/RegularGhostly
Summary: John, during his three days of wondering what happened during a poorly planned bank heist, struggles with missing and worrying about Arthur Morgan. Nothing can save him from his thoughts, and he ends up in Arthur's cabin looking for comfort. He falls asleep in Arthur's bed...and when he wakes up it's to the man he was so worried for. he's been caught sleeping in Arthur Morgan's bed, what's he gonna do to him?





	1. Chapter 1

John ambled into camp from his watch post on the edge of Horseshoe Overlook. His shift had already run long and his feet killed. After deciding it would be okay to look away for just a few minutes he was headed too his tent. “Still no sign of the boys?” Dutch called to John with his strong voice from the short step of his tent. The orchestral music from his gramophone almost buried the question how loud it was, but nothing could stifle the voice of Dutch Van der Linde. John turned to him, rifle held against his shoulder. 

"No. Shouldn’t they be back by now?” John's voice was harsh and rough yet childish like a grown man stuck with the voice of a teenager trying to speak after choking on a handful of gravel. He already knew the answer to that question, and had taken that shift just to be the first one there when they arrived back with all the money the Valentine city bank had to give. But he was hoping he’d misheard, and maybe the reason they were late was because they weren’t late at all. Maybe they were safe and busy. 

“That is what Hosea estimated, yes, and hardly is he ever wrong.” Dutch stepped down from the wooden platform his tent was set on and puffed his cigar as he spoke close to John. “Then again, how often do things ever go according to plan? The universe doesn't often grant such favor to outlaws like us.” 

That was what John was worried about. Things not going according to plan. Things going so sour that they’d come back with one less man, no money, and the law on their asses. He didn’t say anything in reply.

“They will be _fine_ son, Don’t worry. Hosea is smart, Lenny is fast, and Arthur...he is _ strong _.” Dutch always spoke like he was running for president. He had a way with words that could keep the camp of twenty people strong, calm, and most importantly loyal. 

John nodded to him and kept walking until he got to his tent on the outside of camp. He set down his gun, his hat, and his coat on his bed. It was ridiculous of him to be so worried when they’re only a few hours late. Ridiculous of him to be so tense, anxious, and stuck in his head, imagining all the horrible shit that could have happened to them. He laid back in his cot and recklessly kicked his things off onto the ground, then put one arm behind his head. He closed his eyes but no rest came to him. For what seemed like the next six hours-three but it was enough torture for six-he tossed and turned as the anxiety twisted in his chest, demanding either action or answers. Of all the worries keeping him up there was one that stuck persistently at the front of his mind. _ What if Arthur don’t come back? _He scowled at himself. Worrying about Arthur, a man who had only antagonized and bullied him since he joined...how pathetic. He should be glad if he never came back. Glad to never hear again how much Dutch prefers him to John, that he’d no longer have anybody to prove himself too or compete against. 

But he couldn’t. And he knew why. He’d known for years but could ever admit it to himself. As much as he hated himself for it, and as much as Arthur and everybody else in the camp would too, he couldn’t help but love Arthur Morgan. And just as falling in love with Arthur was against his own will, so was the fear of losing him. And laying in bed with his mind torturing him was not helping anything. _ I could at least go wait like a homeless puppy somewhere else. _He stood from his cot. Maybe they were just late. Maybe he could go and stand watch right now and within a few minutes or a few hours he’d see them headed up the road with a wagon full of gold and every man accounted for. John dressed himself back in his dirtied coat and hat-not before stepping them into the dirt-and slung his rifle over his shoulder. 

Charles was standing watch now, and as not to startle the man into getting himself swiftly and quietly stabbed he cleared his throat before stepping up behind him. “Hey” He started, and immediately hated how awkward he always was. “Let me take watch." He stated plainly, waving him away with his hand. 

"You had a long shift earlier John, I'm alright. Get some rest." Charles responded.

"I can’t sleep worth a shit anyway.” He looked down and to the side as he talked, anywhere but directly to Charles. 

Suspicious but unwilling-or too polite-to question John, Charles nodded in agreement. “Sure. Thank you, John.” Charles patted a heavy hand on John's shoulder as he passed him and made his way to his tent by the campfire.

For the rest of that night John stood waiting with his eyes on the road and his ears perking to the sounds of the wilderness around them or a strangers horse trotting down the dirt road. But by sunrise there was no sign of the gang. 

“I am _sure_ they are _fine_.” Dutch assured the camp as he gave another one of his empowering speeches in front of his tent. The smoke of his cigar danced in the air as he waved it around through every word. He must have been able to sense the camps suspicions, he answered before they could ask. “I chose not to attend because, if you have all forgotten, my name and face is plastered all over every town within a three days ride from Blackwater.” The crowd listened but John shook his head in disbelief. He was angry. Angry that Dutch had sent them on a heist without risking his own neck, that he didn’t know if Arthur was alive or dead or in custody, and that Dutch seemed more or less unfazed by the issue. Even if it was his favorite son that could be in danger. John had a hard time believing everything was just fine, but he had to trust Arthur. There was nothing else he _ could _do. 

That night he went to bed with Abigail, though the slimness of the cot reminded them both painfully that it wasn’t meant for two people. He’d hoped that she would ground him as she sometimes did. She loved him, sometimes. And sometimes he loved her back. It did help a bit, to have somebody to hold as tight and forget about the anxieties wrapped around his mind. When he awoke it was to an empty tent, with the sun shining down through the top of the thin, worn canvas. He’d woken up late and though he’d be teased for it by every “hard-working” Member of this camp he was grateful for it, because that was a few less hours to be thinking about Arthur. He ate breakfast surrounded by the rest of the gang but in silence, until somebody spoke to his worries. 

“I’m worried about the boys.” Said Mary-Beth, all dolled up for a day of sitting around camp. She quickly looked over her shoulders. “I know what Dutch said but...ain’t it weird he didn’t go with ‘em? I mean...if he couldn't go I feel like he wouldn't send 'em."

John couldn’t help but reply and swallowed his food before he finished chewing to do so, forcing a large lump to slowly sink down his throat. “Course it’s weird, whole thing is weird. Why ain’t they back yet? Why ain’t Dutch more worried?” The resentfulness spilled out of his throat as he talked around his next spoonful of stew. “Sending ‘em on a suicide mission like that and not even going with ‘em...some leadership.” He complained, unmindful of who he was talking too. 

“Watch it boy,” Micah’s voice came warningly from the end of the table where he stood, one boot against the side of it. “That’s our boss you’re talkin’ about. And he’s a far better man than you.” All John could think about while silently staring at that smug face was what Arthur would say back. "Maybe they've all gotten themselves shot. Wouldn't be much of a loss would it?"

He looked Micah in the eye and squinted harshly. He said nothing, and stood up from the table it wasn't his shift, but we was going to stand guard again. If Arthur were there, he thought, he’d be proud. That was the first time maybe in his life that somebody insulted him and it didn’t end in a childish fist-fight.

“John,” John hadn’t even heard Charles coming up to him, and was pulled from his thoughts at the sound of his timber voice. He realized it was dark, the stars and crickets where out, and wondered how long he’d been in his head. “Come on, you’re way past your shift. Get some rest.” Charles carried a careful tone and understanding expression, and nothing scared John more than anybody in the gang understanding what he was going through. He felt like a farm wife, waiting impatiently and fearfully for her husband to return from the war all in one piece.

John didn’t want to give up his post, he didn’t want to risk Arthur coming back and him not being there first for some reason he couldn’t explain even to himself. Maybe he wanted Arthur to see him first. Maybe he was just impatient to make sure he was alive. But he knew if he argued, he wouldn’t be able to explain himself. And Charles would only come to understand him further, God forbid. 

So John agreed, thanked Charles, and headed towards Abigail’s tent in the hopes that she would do him better tonight. But as he passed the edge of camp he passed Arthur’s... and he looked in. On Arthurs bedside table was an orange flower in a jar, one he’d had for a long time and John could never tell was real or fake. There was a newspaper cut out of his first heist, some gifts in thanks for errands run, and a pair of riding gloves. As John looked down to the small “Thank You’s” in gift form, he wondered how Arthur could ever see himself as anything but the best of all of them. Never would anybody in the gang help a stranger in need if it didn’t benefit them...except for Arthur. Never would anybody meet a goofy, out-to-get-himself-killed photographer and go out of his way to save him instead of robbing him blind. Except for Arthur. Arthur was undoubtedly the kindest of them all, an image for children to look up to...but he could only see himself as a tainted man. 

John pulled a letter from Arthur’s bedside table and sat down on the mattress. It was from an unnamed woman, apparently endlessly grateful for some good deed Arthur had done her. John smiled slightly to himself as he read it. It was long and vague, but there was one part that stood out to him.

“_ You’re a good man Arthur Morgan. I don’t care what you say or what you’ve done. You are a good man. _” It read.

_ Good luck convincing him of that, lady. _John thought with a scoff and laid back. The tent went dark as his body and eyes got heavy...

John's eyes quickly snapped open at the feeling of a heavy hand on his shoulder, shaking him awake. He tried to jump to his feet, instinct and fear filling his body. He was pushed down by the shoulders and couldn’t move. Before he could scream for help a hand was covering his mouth.

“Marston, the hell are you doing?” John recognized the voice and relaxed, no longer afraid for his life.

Arthur released him, and John quickly sat up and rubbed his eyes. The letter lay crinkled beside him, evidence that he was going through Arthurs things. He’d be killed for this for sure, Arthur Morgan was going to kill him. He was again afraid for his life.

“I-I’m sorry I fell asleep…” He said and gulped, looking up at the man towering above him. Arthur was standing at the edge of the bed, one foot stapled against the end of it and leaning over John, who suddenly felt very small. At first sight of him he was relieved to see that he was okay. Not a single scratch on him. That relief died when Arthur crawled over him and pressed him down to the bed by his shoulders. 

“That I already see. I was askin’ you why you were asleep in _ my _bed.” Arthur whispered his questions harshly, and it was then that John realized it was still dark out. They had gotten back in the middle of the night. 

“Shit Morgan I’m sorry alright? Just let me go and I’ll-” John started to stand, dying to leave the tent before Arthur lost his temper and used those strong hands to choke or beat him to death. Or worse, he would be forced to explain himself. But he was held down to the bed, and Arthur loomed over him, his grip tightening. He pressed his knees into the mattress on either side of John, pinning him in. 

“Marston…” Arthur warned in a whisper. It made John whimper pathetically, heat pooling in his gut and shame spreading over his face in bright red. “You can admit that you missed me, ain’t nobody here but us.” His voice was smooth and deep yet tinted with sarcasm, no longer sounding like he was close to pummeling the younger man but more like he was amused in teasing him.

“Wh-what the hell are you doing?” John hissed back as he struggled, kicking his legs and uselessly pulling his chest up. He struggled to pull his arms up. Arthur responded by pushing him down further, sitting in his lap, and grabbing his wrists together over his head. Again a whine escaped John’s throat as the action fueled the heat in his lower stomach. He's had dreams like this...and they never ended in Arthur killing him.

“You keep making those noises...and I’m gonna start thinking you like this Marston.” Arthur said tauntingly, dark grin spreading across his face. He gathered both of John's wrists in one hand, and with his free hand held the side of Johns neck. John’s head tilted up for Arthur, who pressed his thumb into the soft spot of his jaw. 

John whined again, and squirmed underneath Arthur. Part of him worried that all of this was just to mock him. All of this was some sick setup so Arthur could pull back the canvas, reveal John’s erection to the entire camp, and mock him for being a queer. But as Arthur kept on, sliding his hand down from his neck to his chest and unbuttoning his shirt, John noticed Arthur’s own cock was hard under the denim jeans. It was then that John realized this is real. This is happening _finally_. Arthur was touching him and _wanting_ him.

Arthur looked John in the eyes sternly. “I’m gonna let go, and you’re going to keep your hands right there. Do you understand?” It wasn’t a request, it was an order. John nodded eagerly, craving to please him and be pleased by him. 

“Good boy.” Arthur praised his compliance and released his hand from John’s wrists. He watched them for a moment, hand hovering over them as if waiting to press them back down. But John was obedient and kept his arms stretched above his head, even gripping the edge of the mattress to hold them there, which Arthur noticed. “Yeah… You’re a real good boy...”

It made John’s heart flutter, his chest suddenly filling with a need-a _ craving _ to do anything he could to hear it again. A need to satisfy Arthur. He lay compliantly while Arthur unbuttoned his shirt down from the chest. His skin jumped and shivered at the gentle graze of Arthur’s knuckles sliding down his stomach, until the fabric was pushed to his either side. Arthurs thick, strong hand travelled down from his collarbone to his waist, caressing John’s side and hip appreciatively. His thumb pressed into the dip of John’s hip, making John mewl and flex them upwards underneath him. Every touch was heating his body, as were the eyes devouring his form. He twisted the side of his red face into the dirty mattress. 

Arthur’s hand didn’t stall as it reached the bulge in John’s jeans. John gasped and stretched his hips when his hard cock was palmed through the denim. He pulled his lower lip in between his teeth and bit it red in a useless attempt to silence his needy whimpering. As Arthur rubbed and ground his palm into John’s lap he hummed and mewled. His eyes only opened when he felt the ache of missing contact, and heard the rustling of fabric. 

Arthur’s muscular arms flexed back as he pulled his shirt over his head. His arms were dark and tan, peppered with freckles and scars and sunspots, then his torso was toned and hardened with muscle but more pale than his arms and face. It made John’s heart stop, he suddenly and desperately needed to touch him. Forgetting Arthur’s rule, John lifted his arms and sat up, bringing them to Arthur’s pecks. Before he could touch him, Arthur grabbed his hands and pinned them back down to the bed, throwing John backwards against the cot with them. His hardened chest loomed over John, not as intimidating as it should be and way more arousing. “I told you to keep them _ up _, boy.” Arthur warned, and if it was intended to make John regret acting impulsively it wasn’t working. “Don’t move.” Arthur ordered him, then moved his hands to the belt around his waist and quickly unbuckled it. As soon as he had pulled it out of the belt loops it was tied and secured around John’s wrists, keeping his hands pressed together and above his head. 

“Arthur please...let me touch you.” John argued weakly, stretching his wrists against the bindings. Arthur didn’t respond, but pulled John’s jeans and underwear down past his ankles and tossed them onto the dirty ground. His erection was exposed to the cold air and even more ashamedly to Arthur’s burning gaze. 

“Little Johnny Marston…” Arthur teased as he stroked one finger up from the base of his cock to the underside of the head, making John whine. John’s cock twitched against his stomach under the touch, amusing Arthur. “Not so little huh?” He teased, making John twist his face away in shame. John gasped as he felt Arthur take his cock in his fist and stroke him just once, watching his face the entire time. 

John moaned shakily, then whined once the pleasure stopped. “Arthur _ please _-!” His begging was muffled by a hand over his mouth, and as shameful as it was the gesture made him grow even more aroused. Something Arthur had noticed. 

“Hush boy. Unless you want everyone to hear you screaming for me.” The reaction Arthur got for his comment, whining and muffled protesting, made his cock twitch. The pressure against his jeans had finally become unbearable. “I’m gonna move my hand, but I don’t wanna hear one noise outta you Marston.” Arthur warned. John nodded in reply and Arthur moved his hand. He unzipped and unbuttoned his jeans, the sound of it drawing John’s eyes there. He watched heatedly as the zipper came down, revealing the hard bulge in his tight underwear. There was a small wet spot growing at where the head must be, and John licked his lips at the sight of it. Once his jeans and underwear were off, revealing his heavy, thick, and throbbing cock, Arthur straddled John’s shoulders. His dick stood out over John’s face, close enough to his lips that Arthur could feel the hot breath. “Let’s put that pretty mouth’a yours to better use.” Arthur teased.

Hypnotized by Arthur’s cock being so close to his tongue that he could taste it, John nodded his head eagerly and obediently held his mouth open for Arthur. Arthur chuckled, amused by how subservient the usually rowdy and undisciplined outlaw was being. He held John by either side of his head, and groaned out with his deep, caramel voice as he pushed in. John fervently wrapped his lips around Arthur’s cock as it slowly slid in, using his tongue on the underside to draw more moans from the man. It worked, and John’s mind was swimming in pride just from the fact that _ he _ was the one pleasuring Arthur. _ He _was the one sucking his cock, watching his stomach jump and twitch, and tasting Arthur’s precum against his tongue. He closed his eyes and hummed, causing Arthur to moan and push his cock in deeper, faster. 

John’s own cock twitched and bobbed against his stomach with need as he swirled his tongue over Arthurs, but he wanted to pleasure Arthur first. He wanted to satisfy Arthur before himself. His lips popped as Arthur suddenly pulled his cock from his mouth, and John whimpered at the loss. Arthur struggled to appear composed, as it was torturous to force himself out of John’s attentive mouth. “On your stomach.” Arthur commanded. John looked at him questioningly and didn’t move. “Now, boy.” He repeated himself more sternly.

John complied though it was awkward trying to flip over with his arms tied. John was now laying on his stomach with Arthur down at the base of the bed. “Pick your ass up.” He ordered. Immediately John knew what was going to happen. He’d never done anything like that, not by himself or with anybody else. The first thing he felt as he got to his knees was Arthur’s blessed had around his cock again. John groaned in pleasure and his eyes swam to the back of his head as his forehead fell to the mattress. He was able to bite his lip, hold in his pitiful moans and whines. Until, he felt a finger wet with something gold and slick-_ gun oil? _-pressed against his entrance. He couldn’t help but yelp and twitch away in surprise, causing the hand to leave his cock and grip around his waist to pull him back. 

“Easy boy…” Arthur may have been trying to calm him, but it came out like a warning. John held still as Arthur worked his finger around his hole until he eventually slid it inside. His other hand went back to John’s cock, stroking him in hopes that it would loosen him up. It turned John to a mess, making him whine and shift back and forth, trying to get more of both the hand and finger once it started to feel good. He tightened when he felt a second finger stretch him open. 

After some minutes of soothing strokes and coaxing, John loosened up for Arthur’s second finger. He bowed his back, chest resting against the bed with his tied wrists beginning to ache at the shoulders. Suddenly, Arthur pressed his finger against something inside him that sent an electric shock all throughout his form. He shook, cried, and threw his head back in pleasure screaming Arthur’s name. _"__Sh-shit Arthur!__"_ He yelped when Arthur slapped his ass, likely punishing him for crying out. He panted until he could talk again. “F-fuck Arthur...you hit something I ain’t-I dunno’ what but shit- _ please _do it again-” He cried again at the harsh smack to his ass, a wordless warning for him to shut his mouth. 

Arthur pulled his fingers from John, earning a whine from him at the loss. “Don’t worry Johnny, we ain’t done.” He stood on his knees behind John and leaned forward over his back to reach his wrists. His hard, hot cock pressed against John’s ass as he untied them and pulled them behind John’s back, only to be tied back. John flexed his wrists in the bindings to test them, more out of instinct than an actual will to escape. Leaving this tent was the last thing he wanted to do right now. His fingers went back to John’s hole, pressing three inside now and stretching him further. “How’s this…” As he pushed his fingers further in, he brushed up against the same spot from before. 

John kicked his feet against the bed in pleasure and nodded against the cot, this time able to hold back his screams. Desperate to feel more of that satisfying feeling, John pushed his hips back into Arthur’s fingers. Arthur chuckled in amusement and pulled his fingers out again, earning a cry of protest from the younger. “I reckon you’re more than ready then.” Again John nodded in agreement, and bowed his back further. He felt the cot shift underneath him as Arthur got to his knees, then the warmth of his hands pressing into his hips. His breath hitched in his throat and his body tensed. The hands on his hips loosened their grip, and Arthur ran his thumbs over John’s hips while shushing him. He mumbled and whispered promises of pleasure and words of comfort until John loosened again, this time with his heart beating its wings in his chest. 

“You ready, Johnny?” Arthur asked, then pressed the tip of his cock against John. John had a feeling that even if he had wanted to say no, it would be hard to get Arthur to stop. But he was more than ready, his body was craving it now. after all that build up. He thought back to the way Arthur’s fingers made him twist and cry, and nodded his head. 

Arthurs heavy grip was back on John’s hip, with his other hand sliding up his back to his shoulder blades. As Arthur slowly pushed further in, with John squirming and moaning, his hand reached the back of his neck. When Arthur was fully inside of John he stilled, bent over his back with his hand around his neck. Arthur’s hot breath puffed out at the back of John’s ear. 

“A-Arthur…” John began unsure if he was going to beg for him to move or for him to stop. The stretched burned, made his stomach hurt, and forced his fingers tight against his palms. But as soon as Arthur began moving, slowly pulling out, John felt the slow swell of pleasure deep within him, causing him to moan wantonly as Arthur pulled out. He left just the head inside of John, leaving him to tighten and twitch against agonizing nothing. He begged and pushed himself back until Arthurs grip stopped him. His hands clamped tightly on his waist and neck. 

“If you don’t stop moving I’ll leave you right now.” He warned. The thought made John’s gut twist in despair and he repeatedly apologized, all while begging him to keep going.

“I’m sorry Arthur I’ll stop just-_ please _don’t go.” He begged.

“Good boy…” Arthur praised once again, and punctuated it by pressing back into John. He bottomed out inside him, earning an appreciative and drawn out moan from John. He praised and moaned and whined as Arthur fucked into him. His waist and neck began to ache from the pressure, knees burn from the mattress beneath them, but he loved it. He loved the burn and stretch as Arthur fucked into him, the growls in his ear as Arthur leaned over his back, and the slap against his ass when Arthur moved his hand from his neck to make him cry out. 

Arthur had kept telling John to be quiet, but it seemed like now everything he was doing was to get a noise out of him. John more than complied by whining and moaning with every thrust, eyes going back in his head from the pleasure. Suddenly, he felt Arthur shift, a grip on the belt between his wrists, and a punching thrust into him. He felt pleasure similar to what he felt with Arthurs fingers course through him like an electric shock, only a hundred times more powerful. He couldn’t help but moan loudly and shamelessly at the feeling, followed by a flurry of please and thank you's. He arched, twisted his hips into Arthur’s, and begged him for more, again, faster, harder, _ please! _

Again Arthur hit that spot with a deep groan and the pleasure ran through his body, the feeling repeating for every thrust. John couldn’t think, couldn’t talk except to beg, and couldn’t keep quiet. Arthur didn’t talk as he fucked into John, only grunted and moaned harshly with every thrust. The sounds of Arthur and the pleasure from his cock turned his brain to mush, all John could do was press the side of his face to the cot and moan into the bed as he was fucked. 

“_ Arthur! _ I-I love you! I love you _ Arthur- _ please, _ I love you-please I-Arthur! _” John was in a daze, unable to stop himself from screaming his confession in the haze of pleasure. He didn’t know what he was begging for. For Arthur to say it back? Or simply for him to know, and not hate him for it? He couldn’t even think enough to fear what he’d confessed. He didn’t stop until something was shoved into his open mouth, something leather and wet with sweat. It was Arthur’s gloves.

John suddenly bit down on the gloves and moaned out loud as a pleasure surrounded his cock. It was Arthur’s hand stroking him again, making his lower stomach pool with an increasingly heated tension. He moaned around the gloves, trying to warn Arthur that he was close. His vision went white, muscles clenched, eyes tightly shut, unable to stop screaming his pleasure around the gloves as his orgasm wracked through every inch of his body. He shot his cum over Arthurs palm and across his bed. Soon following was the warm and unfamiliar feeling of Arthur filling him up with his own. Arthur groaned and pressed himself deep into John until every last drop was inside him. The feeling made John whimper appreciatively until he felt himself empty, Arthur having pulled out. 

John lost his strength and his body fell to the bed, his arms fall to his sides when Arthur untied his wrist. They both panted heavily, not a word between them until slowly John sat up, arm shaky in supporting him. Arthur, sitting on his knees, looked back at him. They both knew what they were waiting for, but neither could bring themselves to mention it. 

“Arthur…” John began without knowing where he was going. Maybe he should apologize. “I’m...I-” 

Arthur stopped him with a hand on his shoulder, lighter this time. He nodded to the entrance of the tent to his head. “Get some rest Marston…” He didn’t seem angry, disgusted, or disappointed at all. Maybe he didn’t know what to think yet. 

Still, John dejectedly got dressed and pulled the canvas of the tent open with his shoes in his other hand. “Hey.” Arthur stopped him, and John looked back. “We’ll talk tomorrow...promise.” he ended with a slight smile, and turned to his bed. 

John left for his tent, and he couldn’t help the boyish grin that spread over his face as he went to bed that night.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Arthur finally talk about the night they spent together. Meanwhile, a new danger reveals itself to the two of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo I was encouraged to write a part two but I couldnt' help myself and now there's /plot/. So, I don't know how long thi will be or really where it's going buuut I hope it's good! and thanks for reading!

John woke up late the next morning. The sun was above him, shining through the canvas of his worn tent and glaring down on his face. If it hadn’t been for the sun in his eyes he may not have woken up for lunch. It didn’t come to him what had happened the night before until he twisted on his side and felt a soreness in his hips. The more he moved, the more parts of him revealed themselves groaning in protest. His shoulders ached, his hips were bruised, and when he stood out of bed his knees went weak at the sudden pain in his backside. Each pain reminded him of the night before. He poked at his bruised hips and remembered Arthurs hands gripping into him. His wrists where raw from the rubbing of the leather belt around them, jaw was sore from being held open by the gloves.

He slowly got out of bed, forcing his body to move against the pain. As he clipped his gun belt around his tender waist he remembered what Arthur had promised the night before.

"_We’ll talk tomorrow...promise.’ _Arthur’s voice repeated the gentle assurance, just as comforting as it was the first time. Comforting...that was a strange word to use for an outlaw. Big, tough, uncivilized...Arthur Morgan wasn’t what most fair ladies considered homey. Not husband material with all those rough edges. John stopped in his tracks at that last thought. _Husband...when did I start thinking about husband? _He scoffed at himself and kept walking. Ridiculous of him he thought, to get fucked and then start thinking about marriage and keeping a homestead together like a young girl. 

John didn’t realize where he was headed until he stood outside the destination and pulled himself from his thoughts. He found himself at Arthur’s tent. And it was empty because of course, it was eleven in the morning and everyone knew Arthur to be up at the crack of dawn. 

“Lookin’ for Arthur?” Micah’s voice came from behind John before he could leave, somehow already sounding smug. John turned to face him and saw that his expression matched his tone, lips twisted up in a smirk, hands on his hips, eyes narrowed suspiciously. John immediately felt defensive at his tone. He crossed his arms over his chest, and glared back. 

“Got information for him.” He lied, and if Micah could see through it he didn’t say. Still, the way Micah as eyeing him made John sweat. 

“Well he ain’t here. Went into Valentine with the darky.” He took a long drag of his cigar, the only civilized thing about him being that it didn’t make him wretch. John’s lips twisted in distaste at the choice of words. Micah went on, “Went to make a connection with the stableman.” 

Every bone in his body screamed ‘bad idea’ at that, which showed on his face and in his words. “In town? So close to camp? What if he ain’t willin’ to work with us? He’ll call the law on them before they can haul ass outta’ town!” John said concernedly, arms flailing and voice raising as he listed off. Micah only chuckled and waved his cigar through the air as he leaned into John.

“What is it, Mary? You worried about your man?” Micah sneered with that same smug grin plastered across his face. The proximity of him assaulted John’s senses with the scent of sweat and alcohol, making John pull back in desperation for fresh air. 

“Piss off Micah. I just don’t want ‘em bringing the law to camp!” John knew he shouldn’t be arguing with him, knew it would only make things worse. But that man just got under his skin and John’s self restraint was already limited. 

Micah shrugged and leaned back, tossing his half-finished cigar into the grass. “I’ll be sure to let him know you’re missin’ him, Johnny. Soon as I see him, I promise.” As Micah walked past him he tossed his cigar to the grass and patted John’s shoulder, but there was nothing brotherly in how it felt. John’s blood simmered under his skin but he walked away, stepping on the cigar and putting it out as he did.

As he walked to the edge of the lake the gears in his mind spun and ground together while he worked through what Micah had said to him. He didn’t like the way Micah was talking and acting, like he knew something. Thinking back, John’s face went red as he remembered how...unsubtle they were the night before. After Arthur gave up trying to shut him up he’d gotten loud and now...it was seeming like a huge mistake. Micah’s smugness and self-assuredness made John worry that he knew. That he saw or heard what him and Arthur had done. If that was true…he needed to talk to Arthur as soon as possible. But again, all he could do was wait. 

John spent the day walking back and forth through the camp restlessly. A pout pulled on his lips like an impatient child about to throw a whining fit. If he were any younger, Dutch would say he was being a brat, which he admittedly was. 

As the dark of night overtook the sky, and the stars slowly poked through to light the camp, there was still no sign of Arthur or Lenny. When the moon rose to the midpoint in the sky John forced himself to get to his tent and try to get some rest. If anybody saw him waiting like a lost puppy for Arthur again, they would only make the obvious assumption. They’d be right, of course, and they’d be acting like Micah.

John began to curse how close his tent was to Arthurs, as he had to pass it to get to his own. Just like the night before he looked in. This time the memories were much different, now only replaying the night before. He looked to Arthur’s bedside table and saw the gloves, tasting the leather in his mouth again. The crumpled letter lay next to them, reminding John of what lead to him falling asleep in the first place. He looked to the bed and remembered how the mattress felt against his hands and knees, how Arthur pushed him into it from behind, how he felt so good he couldn’t stop himself from screaming. His body ached everywhere Arthur touched as he remembered, and before he knew what he was doing he was in his bed again. 

John knew that to lay here again, waiting for Arthur to get back would be to tempt fate. Anybody could walk past him and Arthur might not be so merciful this time. But...maybe Arthur would come back in the night again. Maybe he would open the canvas, see John inside, and they could talk.  _ Talk… _ Again he felt ridiculous for wanting so badly for something like that. He seemed like a housewife hoping for something so...domestic. 

It wasn’t a mistake when he crawled onto Arthur’s bed this time. John curled up on his side, slid his arm under his head, and closed his eyes. He took in the scent of the bed-of Arthur-on the Mattress. It smelled of pollen from his curious flower picking, sweat, gunpowder, cigar smoke, and metal. It was a nauseous mix of smells to anybody else, but there was something so.. _ .Arthur _ about it. So warm and familiar. He was the only man who could wear this scent and not make people sick as he walked by. John fell asleep with his face pressed against the mattress, surrounded in that smell. 

“You really can’t make a habit out of this Marston…” John awoke to the sound of Arthur’s voice and suddenly all eagerness to see him rushed out of him. There was no more imagining, thinking, wondering. It was actually happening now and maybe he wasn’t ready. John wiped his eyes and sat up, legs dangling over the side of the bed with room for Arthur to sit next to him. “How many times am I gonna come back to you curled up in my bed, John?” Arthur teased him but there was no malice in it. When John turned to look at him, he was wearing a slight smirk. 

“Don’t feed the strays if you don’t want ‘em to come back.” John responded with an equal amount of snark, earning a chuckle from the man beside him. 

“Is that what you came here for? To be fed?” Arthur looked him up and down with those eyes, the same ones he felt on him while bent over on the bed the night before. Suddenly John knew what it felt like to be one of those bar harlots, intimidated yet intrigued by the handsome outlaw’s gaze. Wanting to crawl to and run from him at the same time. 

His face flushed as he responded unevenly, “No I...you said we’d talk.” Such timidness coming from a man who killed to be free and stole to provide amused Arthur.

“O’course. I’m a man of my word… Most of the time.” Arthur looked to John expectantly, as if John would have any idea what he was supposed to say.

“So…” John trailed off, and Arthur chuckled. 

“Let me start with a question. Did you mean it?” Arthur pulled a cigarette and lighter out of his pocket, then rested his elbows on his knees as he lit it. John opened his mouth to answer but Arthur interrupted. “Be honest, now.” He added.

John sat silently for a moment, watching as Arthur’s lips held onto the cigarette, then the pursing of them as he blew the smoke. John swallowed, and finally spoke up. “I… I don’t know.” He looked down at his feet but felt Arthur’s eyes on him.  _ Be honest.  _ It repeated in his mind. “Yeah...I did.”

“Aww...ain’t that sweet.” Arthur immediately teased, grinning like a wolf just caught himself a rabbit. “Little Johnny Marston, loving a man so bad he had to sneak into his tent and sleep in his bed.” He took another drag of his cigarette. 

“Fuckin’-can it Morgan! You’re the one told me to be honest!” John’s voice rose in his embarrassment, pink crawling up his skin and glowing under his cheeks. 

“Hey.” Arthur said sternly, grabbing John by the chin and turning it to face him. “Quiet.” The action, though maybe it shouldn’t have, sent a warmth creeping up his spine and worsened the red crawling up his face. Arthur eyed him expectantly, to which John nodded obediently in reply. “Good.” Arthur stated, and let him go. Like nothing had even happened, he put his cigarette back in his mouth and puffed.

John swallowed and waited a moment before talking. “So, you’re not gonna call me a queer? Tell me I should hang and kick me out of the gang?” John knew the answer as he was asking it, but was hoping to coax something else out of him. Arthur still hadn’t told him how  _ he _ felt.

“Nawh, I’d have to be some kinda hypocrite wouldn’t I?” Arthur placed the cigarette back between his lips for another puff. 

John’s mouth hung open as he wrapped his mind around what that meant. “That mean you-?”

Arthur cut him off. “You know, you gotta stop being so damn obvious, Marston. It’s gonna get’cha in trouble.”

John twisted his face in confusion at him. “Whaddya’ mean?” Even as he asked it he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the answer. Arthur snickered, which only cemented John’s hesitance.

“Before I left this morning I had Micah telling me, ‘John sure missed ya while you was in Valentine. Never seen a grown man lookin’ so much like a kicked puppy.’” Arthur looked him in the eye as he repeated Micah’s words, looking proud of himself as he put the cigarette back in his mouth. John felt maybe he wasn’t so angry about hearing it.

“Why was Micah talking about-?” He began to defend himself but Arthur kept going. 

“Then I come back, and you’re back in my bed. Someone mighta seen you crawl in here.” He took another puff of his cigarette, it was now short enough he almost burned his fingers on it.

“Well I-” Again, John was interrupted. 

“My point is, Marston, that if we wanna keep this up, you can’t go letting the whole camp know. Don’t matter how much Dutch loves us...ain’t nobody gonna put up with a couple of queers in the gang.” Arthur smothered his cigarette in the dirt and looked to John.

John looked at him, dazed. “Keep this...up? You wanna keep doin’ this?” His mouth hung slightly open as he looked to Arthur, waiting for him to answer. 

He smirked with a slight chuckle, eyes scanning over John’s stunned expression. “I ain’t the only one am I?”

John opened and closed his mouth until Arthur took pity on him. “John, yes or no. Do you wanna keep doin’ this?” 

John quietly nodded his head, worried that if he spoke now he’d destroy this chance. Arthur grinned and patted his back with a heavy hand. “You know I’ve never seen you so quiet. I kinda like it.” He teased. “Now…” Suddenly Arthur’s tone changed completely. His voice went deep, eyes darkened. Arthur’s hand traveled from John’s back to his chest, where he gripped his shirt. “Did you miss me again today,  _ boy _ ?” 

John’s breath fled from his lungs in a sharp, shaky exhale, and he nodded his head quickly, body already aching for him. Arthur smirked, and tossed him to the mattress. 

Within twenty minutes John was dressing himself, sweaty skin sticking to the clothes as he tugged them back up. He looked back to Arthur from the open canvas, who lit another cigarette and nodded to him politely on his way out. As much as it disappointed him to be kicked out again, he knew it wasn’t the last time. 

He sorely ambled back to his tent and fell to the canvas cot, immediately stiffening at the discomfort compared to Arthur’s bed. Even with his back stiff and the humid air sticking to his skin, his exhaustion put him to bed quickly. 

He awoke much earlier the next morning, sat across from Arthur during breakfast, ignored the soreness in his ass while facing the man who caused it, and stood his guard shift. The first hour went by slowly as he stared, bored out of his mind, at the empty road ahead of him. The long stretch of silence was broken by a sudden hand on his shoulder, making him jump. He smelt a sour stench, and knew it was Micah. “Whaddya want, Micah?” John asked, already set off by his presence. 

“You got no respect, Marston. No respect for the fine people of this camp.” Micah set an accusatory tone, though it didn't sound like he was entirely serious. 

“The hell are you talking about?” John turned towards him with a scowl and raised his voice. 

“See...I thought something was off about you.” Micah circled John once as he spoke, facing him as he closed his mouth around another cigar. What, too silver for a cigarette? “But what I heard last night...that just don’t make sense.  _ Two  _ queers in my camp? And you had the balls to pretend like you wasn’t sick, sticking around here, infecting the camp. ” Micah glared at him, not once moving from his eyes. “I betcha Dutch’ll have a hard time believin’ it. His two favorites, boys he raised into men _ ,  _ turning out to be a couple of fairies. It’ll break his heart-”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about!” John spat back loudly, angrily. The heads of a few gang members turned to the scene. His body burned with anger, chest filled with terror, limbs shook with an unbearable need to beat the smug look off his face.

“I don’t?” Micah balled his fists and pushed his face into John’s space. “You sure about that,  _ boy? _ ” A smug grin stretched across his face, as John’s eyes went wide in shock for just a moment before he quickly scowled again, and leaned in closer to Micah.

“You don’t know nothin’, now get the hell outta my face!” John yelled and bumped Micah’s shoulder as he stomped past him. As he walked through camp, curious eyes followed him. It made him paranoid. What if they’d all heard them? What if everybody knew? The first thing he wanted to do was find Arthur, but that would only cement what Micah already knew. Instead he found Abigail and Jack, and waited with them until the time was right. 

John watched Arthur as he moved around the camp, waiting for him to be alone so he could tell him what had happened. Arthur would know what to do, Arthur always knew what to do. 

It was late when Arthur went into his tent for the night, and John was grateful he hadn’t been sent out again. He waited, and scanned the campground before following Arthur in. “Again, Marston? Ain’t you sore?” Arthur looked genuinely perplexed as he spoke. 

“No Arthur listen to me. Micah knows.” John said curtly the warning he’d been waiting to give all day. 

“What?’

“He knows. He came to me during my shift, he heard me-us-and he knows.” John couldn’t help feeling guilty, and maybe that’s because it really was his fault. He waited for Arthur’s barrage of anger. 

Instead Arthur was serious and cool as he sat on the edge of his bed. He looked up at John. “What exactly did he say?”

John was momentarily grateful and completely surprised at Arthur’s reaction, though maybe he shouldn’t have been. Not everybody was as impulsive and hot-headed as John. “Told me I had no respect for the gang. That it takes balls for me to stay here, knowing what I am. He told me he heard us last night, and...he had proof.” 

“Proof?” Arthur parroted. “What kind of proof?”

John mumbled something unintelligible as he looked to the side. 

“Marston, what was the proof. How do you know he ain’t bluffin’?” Arthur asked again, growing more impatient.

“Called me ‘boy’... Musta’ heard you using it...” John cringed as he revealed it to Arthur, that his shameful love for that name was known tp Micah. “What do we do?”

“Hell...I don’t know yet just lemme think.” Arthur stood and ran his hand through his hair. It was rare for John-or anybody-to see Arthur actually vexed. “He ain’t said nothing to nobody else?”

“I mean I don’t think so, no.” John answered. “Arthur, what do we do?”

“He’s going to try and blackmail us.” Arthur concluded. “The only reason he wouldn’t tell Dutch and have us chased out of the gang, or turned in and hung, is because he’s wantin’ to use it.” 

That made sense to John, it was common work in the gang thanks to Trelawny and Heir Strauss. But there was a reason they used it, it always worked. “Well fuck...what do we do? We can’t kill him.” 

Arthur chuckled dryly, rubbing his chin. “Nope. Can’t kill him. And what do you do with a rat ya ain’t allowed to kill?”

John looked at him in confusion, raising both his arms in a shrug. 

“Ya trap it.” Arthur said confidently, even making the motion of a trap closing with his two hands. 

“Trap...how?” 

“We’ll need something on him. Man that dirty...no way there ain’t something he don’t want Dutch to know about.”

John opened his mouth to ask another question, but choked on his words when Arthur pressed his hands against his chest. The wind was suddenly pulled from his lungs when he felt something wholly unfamiliar against his lips. Arthur’s lips pressed against John’s in a surprisingly gentle yet impassioned kiss. His patchy beard rubbed against his skin, his lips were dry and uneven, and tasted like smoked rabbit and whiskey. John’s eyes slowly closed as he held both his hands around Arthur’s neck. He groaned as Arthur moved against him, pushed his head back, and slid his tongue against his lips. The electric, satisfying, intoxicating feeling was taken from him all to quickly when Arthur separated. He looked at him for a moment, searching his face. Arthur’s hands twisted in John’s shirt and then released. 

“I’ll think of something by tomorrow… Try and get some rest John.” Arthur said sincerely. 

John stood frozen for a moment, head swimming with the feeling of Arthur’s lips against his. Even as he lay in his cot the feeling ghosted on his skin. Arthur would have a plan. He always did. 

  
  



	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Arthur finally find out what Micah's up to, and are forced to deal with it when he sets his plan in action.

Recently John’s days seemed to consist entirely of waiting. Waiting for Arthur to get up, waiting for him to be free, waiting for the camps eye’s to turn from them. The fallen log on the side of camp accompanied him most days. And all of his waiting was done with Micah’s burning gaze on his back...but never on Arthur’s. John had noticed later in the day after the stable connection that Micah treated John differently than he did Arthur. He antagonized him, poked at him, called him names and threatened him, all out in the middle of camp. Micah made it known that he knew what John was. But for whatever reason he didn’t treat Arthur the same.

He hadn’t seen Micah acting neighborly to Arthur, but that wasn’t a change. Maybe it’s because he knew to start a fight with Arthur would be the same as pulling a trigger against his own head.  _ Coward _ . John thought _ .  _ He was grateful for that, though, if he thought about it. He knew that Arthur, being mocked for something that intimate, would choke the man right in the middle of camp.  _ Why haven’t I yet?  _ He wondered amusedly.

John was pulled from his thoughts by the calling of Dutch from his tent. “John! Come here son, I got you something!” His joyous tone revealed to John exactly what he had. Nothing got Dutch more excited than a good, honest scheme. Usually John agreed. He stood from the log and made his way to Dutch, when he noticed the stretch of Arthur’s shoulders under his blue summer shirt. His left hand was on his hip, right reaching up to scratch at his stubble. If that meant Arthur would be accompanying him, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad afterall. 

John picked up his step as he made his way to Dutch. He nodded politely to the two of them Dutch then began to explain himself. “I have got something special for you two.” He said, practically rubbing his hands together at the scheme. 

“What is it?” John asked with a nod of his head. 

Dutch began quickly. “While I was in Valentine, I heard from a fella in the saloon about a man named Will Herridge.” He clasped his hands together, eyes wide as if that name was supposed to mean anything to either of them. 

“Rich feller?” Arthur guessed with a questioning tilt of his mouth. 

“ _ Very  _ Rich, son. And apparently also very stupid. He’s a rancher coming down from near Strawberry into Valentine to buy cattle. Sheep.” Dutch continued, getting more and more eager with every word he spoke. He gestured widely with his hands as he described the job. 

Arthur smirked and nodded knowingly, but John was left in the dark. “And how are we supposed to get the money offa’ this guy? Sell him some sheep?” John asked. 

Dutch continued, more than happy to explain. “Micah’s idea-and it is genius I have to give him that-was to propose yourself as hired guns. You offer your services, he hires you, and somewhere between Strawberry and Valentine…” He gestured outward with his hands silently, but leaving nothing unsaid. 

“Micah’s idea?” That didn’t settle well with John, not with what he knew and how he’d been acting. “And he...asked for us two?” He gestured between him and Arthur, who gave him a knowing look. 

“He did. You’re not afraid of shedding a little blood now are ya son?” Dutch chuckled and patted his shoulder.As he walked past them as John’s eyes followed. He saw Micah, eyeing them like a wolf and listening in to their conversation.

“If you’re scared Mabel, you can stay home with the kids.” He chuckled grossly. The thought of him alone with Arthur, away from camp, made him uneasy. Years of rough living and looking over his shoulder had trained his perception and his gut said hell no. As John looked at Micah was something in his eyes that made John feel like throwing up. It was a threat, and he wasn’t going to allow it. Not Arthur. 

“Give it a rest Micah-“ Arthur began tiredly.

“Course I ain’t scared!” John growled in response, earning a patronizing chuckle from Micah. 

“Then we head out now. If we wanna meet him in strawberry we need to be at the lodge before him.” Micah turned his back to them and walked to his horse as he spoke. John felt pity for the poor thing, having to carry what was essentially a sack of sulphur around on its back. No creature deserved that. 

Arthur and John lagged behind and walked beside each other. John could tell by the suspicious squint in his eyes that Arthur was feeling the same as him. He didn’t trust this, didn’t trust Micah, and was on high alert. Knowing that Arthur was on watch made John feel a bit better. 

On horseback Micah lead the way towards Strawberry, leaving John and Arthur to ride side by side. “So, which one of you infected the other?” Micah needled, venom on his tongue.

John opened his mouth to fire back but was cut off by a low growl coming from the man next to him. It sent a shiver down his spine and snapped his mouth shut, but Micah didn’t get the message. “It’s a disease...being with another man like that.” He spat off the side of his horse. John looked to Arthur and it was like watching the fuse slowly burn down a stick of dynamite. He watched the muscles in his jaw clench, his eyes darken, and his hands clenching around the reins until his knuckles went white. John couldn’t help but chuckle to himself, knowing what Micah was in for. 

“Fairies...in my fucking gang.” Micah shook his head in disbelief but John wasn‘t watching. His attention was focused on Arthur, who was about to explode. “Disgusting-“ 

“ENOUGH!” Arthur roared, forceful enough that John felt it in his chest. “You don’t know NOTHING about it Micah Bell. And if you don’t want a bullet in the back of your head you’ll shut your GODDAMN MOUTH.” 

John’s face and stomach warmed from the shout. It was rough, authoritative, protective.  _ Protective...of us?  _ John’s lips curled into a slight grin at the thought.

Micah didn’t say a word for the rest of the ride, ‘cept for an offended scoff after Arthur shut him up. 

They arrived in Strawberry in the evening and hitched their horses to the post outside. The town was dark but not quiet. The chatter of both residents and visitors chattering, and chirping crickets filled the air. Arthur shoved past Micah and lead into the welcome center. Inside the fireplace crackled and popped, filling the room with a glow and warmth that did nothing to comfort the men. In a large, plump living chair was a large, plump man.

He was slouched in the chair with a fat cigar in his mouth. He wore a long, black, tailcoat over his dark blue vest and white undershirt. He had perfectly circled spectacles set upon the bridge of his nose, his hair was smooth and brown-the same color as his groomed mustache-and parted down the middle. 

Sitting on the ornate couch to the left of him was one man. His face was mean and scarred with a permanent scowl. A hired gun. As John looked between them his mind struggled to wrap around what Micah could have in mind. The plan was simple, he knew that. But if Micah was going to blackmail them he didn’t see how this would help.

“He’s got one gun with him.” Arthur whispered between him and John as he leaned against the wall. Micah stepped rudely between them and John’s skin rippled at the proximity. He heard Arthur let out a huff of irritation. 

“What’s the plan here, ladies?” He asked rudely.

Before Arthur could answer a man walked in the door and began talking with Mr. Herridge. He looked to the one gun and sighed disappointedly. “This is rough country Mr. Herrdige. You only brought one gun?” He questioned, hand on his belt. The hired gun huffed in irritation but did not speak. 

“Rough country?” Will parroted, sounding offended. “Yes I’m aware. I’ve hired a gun. And if I’m not mistaken, Mr. Johnson, you’re taking this journey alone, are you not?” 

The question made John snort in amusement as he looked between them. Will Herridge was pudgy and soft, he would bet anything that he’d never seen a gunfight. The other man, his assumed associate, was hardened and rough. He was dirty, tall, lanky, covered in scars and holding both his hands on his belt impolitely.  _ There’s a reason he ain’t hired a gun.  _ John thought in response.

The other man-Johnson-replied with a snicker. “I ain’t you, Mr. Herridge. I’ll be just fine.” He promised. “My partner will be seeing you in a few days then. Adios, Mr. Herridge.” The man tipped his hat and turned on his spurs to leave. 

“He just did all our talkin’ for us.” Arthur slapped the wooden wall behind and and sauntered up to Herridge, who was suddenly looking very concerned. “Excuse me, Mr. Herridge?” Arthur bent over slightly and touched his hand to his chest. 

“Yes. Who are you?” He replied questioningly. 

“I’m sorry mister, I just happened to overhear your conversation.” Arthur’s voice went sincere and polite, reminding John of how easily Hosea could slip into anybody's mind and manipulate them. Arthur really did have a thousand skills. “If you need more guns…” he gestured back to where John and Micah leaned against the wall. “Me and my partners just happen to be for hire.” 

Mr. Herridge seemed to eye them suspiciously, but didn’t know what he was looking for. This man might trust anybody who gave him a polite smile. “Truly?” He asked. 

The hired gun beside him grunted in protest but was ignored by Mr. Herridge. Arthur caught his eye and quickly looked back to Mr. Herridge.

“Truly and honestly mister.” Arthur replied with a chuckle, both hands surrendered in the air. 

“Yes. Yes good, thank you.” The man stood from his chair and adjusted his coat. “We leave at dawn. Just tell the clerk I’ll be paying for your stay.” He stomped heavily up the stairs, and the door to his room soon closed. 

“Well there we go boys.” Micah applauded sarcastically as he walked to the counter. “You two Mary’s find the room, I’ll deal with this nice feller.” Micah smirked grossly and nodded towards the small, nervous clerk. 

The stairs creaked as John followed Arthur up. He sighed as the opened and closed the door on the room they’d all have to share, grateful for a second without that slimy rat. 

“I can’t stand another second of that pile of shit.” John immediately spat out, slumping onto the bed. 

Arthur let out a long sigh and leaned against the wall beside the door. “Keep an eye on him.” He lit a cigarette and pressed it against his lips. “I’m not so sure blackmail’s what he’s got in mind no more…” 

“Whad’ya-“ John heard the doorknob twist and clamped his mouth shut. As it opened, Arthur took a long drag of his cigarette and blew out into the air in front of the door. Micah scowled at 

him through the smoke, then looked to John on the bed. 

“You’re in my bed, boy.” He snarled. 

“Fuck off Micah.” John retorted as he began to pull his boots off. 

Micah put his hands on his belt, and slowly walked in front of John. “I said, you’re in my bed.” 

“It’s a big bed Micah.” Arthur said warningly.

“I ain’t sharing a bed with no queer.” He spat back. John looked to Arthur, who had stepped his cigarette into the wooden floor beneath him. His jaw and fists were tight, his glare sharp as he watch Micah lean down into John. He was looking at Arthur, but spoke to John. “Unless you want your man strung up on the gallows, you’ll sleep on the floor.” His words simmered with violence like a dying fire. 

Arthur growled and took a step towards him, fist clenched tight, but stopped when John stood. “That weren’t so hard now, was it?” Micah mocked as he took John’s place.

Arthur looked at Micah like he was going to kill him, and John was starting to hope we just would. Even if Dutch did kick them out for it. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad...him an Arthur running off together. Just the two of them, robbing, stealing, killing, nobody to hide from but the law. Maybe it wasn’t the life he should have been wanting for but it sounded damn nice. He jumped when he felt a heavy hand on his shoulder. Arthur nodded for John to follow, and he did. 

They left the welcome lodge and as Arthur began to unwrap the bedroll from his horse John finally realized why. “I’m sorry.” He said, not even sure why he did. 

“What for?” Arthur asked. 

“I dunno...I shoulda punched him.” John replied as his fingers clumsily tugged at the rope. Old Boy was getting impatient, tapping his back leg on the dirt. 

Arthur chuckled lightly and shook his head. He looked to the right and past the jail was the gallows Micah was threatening him with. Hanging a man without charge would have been easy for him if the town thought he was a fairy. His blood slowed and cooled at the thought. “Naw, you did the right thing.” He replied.

“There you boys are.” As the three bounced down the steps the next morning Mr. Herridge called from inside his stagecoach. “Ennis here was telling me we should leave without you. but I knew better.”

The guard, apparently named Ennis, was sat on the bench of the stagecoach, reins in hand. He spoke up with a voice gruff from underuse. “Let’s get going. It’s a long ride.” 

_ A man of few words.  _ John thought. The boys mounted their horses, and left the city behind. It was a long ride, made even longer by Mr. Herridge’s incessant rambling. This man could have carried a whole conversation by himself, but Ennis humored him with a hum and chuckle occasionally. The way he kept looking at them, especially Micah, told John that he was suspicious. He felt his eyes on him always, even Ennis was watching the road. 

It was the early evening when they passed into the Dakota river, almost the exact middle point between Strawberry and Valentine. Micah cleared his throat heavily and gripped his gun in his holster, signaling to them that it was time. The horses and stagecoach slowed as they crossed through the river, and Micah took the opportunity. He pulled his revolvers from his holsters, one in each hand, and in one quick, smooth motion, held one each to both John and Arthur. “Ennis, stop the carriage.” He ordered. 

“Micah! What the hell are you-“ Arthur barked in shock. 

Ennis looked to him and did just as he was ordered. “Ennis! What’s the hold up boy?” Mr. Herridge asked impatiently. He looked out his left window and gasped. “Oh my! What’s going on?” He exclaimed in worry. 

“These two boys were going to rob you!” Micah exclaimed. “Hands up cowpokes.” He warned.

simultaneously, both Arthur and John knew what he had been planning all along. They looked between each other and slowly raised their hands. If they didn’t act, they’d either be shot now or hung later.

Mr. Herridge looked angrily at them from inside the carriage, unwilling to step out and get his feet wet. “Is that true?” He exclaimed. 

“Micah you little rat.” Arthur clenched his fists in the air as he watched. 

“Yessir, tried to get me in on it too. But I couldn’t do that to such fine people.” He grinned evilly at them, and twisted his thumb on his revolvers. 

Ennis raised his rifle to Arthur. “Kill them then.” He said plainly. 

As quick as he could, Arthur reached for his gun and pulled it out of its holster. In a quick motion he fired at Micah and missed, but created enough distraction for him and John to fall off their horses and into the river. 

“John, here!” Arthur called from behind the cover of a large rock. Bullets rained around him as he crawled to Arthur and pressed his back against the boulder. 

“That fucking rat!” John growled, gravely and harsh as he pulled his rifle from his back. The stagecoach now only carried a fearful Mr. Herridge, still unwilling to wet his boots. Ennis and Micah has taken up cover at the other side of the river, and were firing nonstop at them. 

“You cocksuckers are finally gonna get what you’re owed!” Micah growled venomously in between shots.

“Just focus on putting a bullet in him John!” Arthur yelled. They fired bullets between each other, haphazardly hitting the carriage with Mr. Herridge inside. Ennis was the first to go down when he tried to move to the next rock over. He was struck in the leg by John, then finished off by Arthur. 

Micah had himself behind a large rock, and was quick with his shots. He was always back behind the rock before they could get a hit on him. John pressed his back to the boulder and took a deep, shaky breath. “I’m going around.” He informed as crouched out from behind the rock.

“No John!” Arthur yelled and tried to grab for him, but John was already going into the shallow river. Bullets splashed the water up around him, kicking droplets into the face and chest. He’d almost made it to the boulder beside Micah, when he felt a sudden searing pain in his upper right arm, and roared in pain. He gripped the wound with his left hand and quickly hobbled to the rock. 

Arthur, hearing the cry, immediately worried. “John?!” He called. 

John didn’t answer, but looked to the side. Micah was up and running to the next cover. “THERE!” John called. He pulled his pistol from his holster and raised it, firing into the middle of Micah’s back. Micah cried out, and fell face first into the rocky river below. 

“Go Arthur!” John ordered through gritted teeth, still gripping his shoulder in pain. The blood dropped from his tight grip into the water, spreading out thinly. He shook his head and weakly stood to see Arthur. 

Arthur waded through the river, water splashing around his boots and he furiously stomped toward him. Micah squirmed and gasped, desperately crawling down the river not towards anything in particular. He was afraid, and trying to run. But Arthur caught up with him, grabbed him back by the leg, and twisted him around into his back. 

“Arthur-Arthur wait!” Micah began to plead helplessly. He raised his hands over his chest protectively. “What’ll Dutch think if you come back without me, you  _ need me!”  _ The desperation was clear in how he spoke quickly, wide eyed and shaking. It was pathetic. 

Arthur didn’t say anything as he pulled his hunting knife from his belt, and stabbed it into the side of Micah’s neck. He gurgled and squirmed for only a moment, before falling limp in the water. The blood spilled and swelled around him in the water, and was carried down by the stream. 

John stared silently, still gripping his arm. Micah was gone, he had to be. Arthur had to kill him...and he wasn’t a horse's hair sorry. “Ar...Arthur.” John walked to Arthur slowly. The water felt heavy around his ankles, he was dizzy, and was having a hard time standing upright. He wobbled and swayed clumsily towards him, vision going blurry. Arthur didn’t turn to him until he heard him splash into the water on his knees. Mr. Herrdige splashed through the water as he fled from the stagecoach. 

When Arthur’s gaze was finally pulled from Micah’s corpse he paced to John. He was quiet, but picked him up in his arms and waded through the water towards the shore. John grunted in pain with every movement, earning calming words of understanding from Arthur. “I know...I know Johnny. “ He soothed. 

Maybe it was a bad time to be getting shy, but John’s stomach fluttered at the softness Arthur was showing him. It was a strange mix of emotions he had. The adrenaline of near death, shock of killing a gang member, relief of surviving another day, and...love for the man holding him in his arms. He took deep breaths in hopes to calm both the butterflies in his gut and pain in his arm. He groaned and squinted tight as Arthur set him down in the grass, leaning against a tree. 

“Dutch is...he’s gonna be sore about this.” He said while wincing. “We killed his new favorite son.” He chuckled.

Arthur huffed and amused sigh. “Well, he started it.” John only noticed Arthur was headed back into the river when he heard the splash of water. He was digging through his saddle bag, likely getting stuff to treat John’s wound.

John was left alone with his thoughts and the sound of the river. From where he sat he could see the water bending and rushing around Micah’s body. Micah’s blood tinted the river a light red, getting lighter and lighter as it made its distance from the source. As he watched, he worked through how it all happened. No matter how he thought it through it he always ended up at fault. 

Arthur said it himself, being so obvious would get him in trouble. Now they had to go back to camp and explain to Dutch, without telling him what happened, that Micah had been killed by one hired gun.

When Arthur got back he crouched next to John’s injured right arm, and put his hand over John’s bloody one. John slowly removed his hand, revealing the gory wound to Arthur. It was five inches below his shoulder, hitting in the meat of his bicep. Arthur said again, sternly. “He did it to himself. And he deserved it.”

From the dirt beside him Arthur picked up a lockpick and flattened his hand around John’s arm. “This is gonna hurt.” He warned. John nodded, and groaned loudly as Arthur plunged it into his arm. He twisted and pulled in search for the bullet lodged inside him, until it eventually popped out. By the time he was done John was sweating and biting his lower lip until it bled. 

“Arthur...fuck.” He whined in pain. 

“I know...I’m sorry Johnny.” Arthur soothed. John felt Arthur’s hand on his head, petting over his hair and down to his neck gently. It reminded John of the way he saw Arthur calming his Tennessee walker, Bella. He snorted at the thought of being treated like a horse. “Oh you’re laughing at me?” Arthur said with mock offense, and pulled his hand away. 

“No, No Art I just…” John turned to him and wrapped both hands around John’s wrist, bringing it back up to his head. “I liked it.” he admitted with a voice far to soft for a man as rough as him. 

Arthur smiled to himself and dipped his head, hiding his eyes under his hat. He continued stroking John’s long hair as his other hand dug into his gun belt for a shotgun shell. He picked it up in his hand, opened it with his teeth, and spat the cap out onto the dirt. “Step two…” He whispered the warning, trying to keep John calm. John knew what was coming next and braced himself. 

He tried his hardest to focus on the feeling of Arthur’s hand in his hair as the gunpowder was shook into his wound. That part didn’t hurt, but he knew what was coming next would be much worse. He pressed his head into Arthur’s hand at the sound of him flicking the lighter open. The gas hissing out and burning flame lit the inside of his tightly squeezed eyelids, which closed harder at the searing pain of the fire against his wound. He shook and pulled his arm away from the pain with a harsh groan. “God... _ dammit!”  _ He exclaimed. 

Shh hey…” Arthur slid his fingers underneath John’s hair and massaged his scalp softly. “Almost done Marston...just a bit more.” With the encouragement John stilled and lowered his head, eyes pressed tightly shut again. Arthur pressed the lighter into him again as John squirmed and cursed out loud, until it was cauterized. 

“Done…?” John asked weakly, panting heavily.

“Done.” Arthur replied, and pulled John’s back against his chest. They were still wet from the river, skin clammy and cool pressed together. “I’m… I’m sorry John.” he mumbled against his ear. 

John made a confused hum and tilted his head into Arthur’s. “What for?”

Arthur let out a long sigh through his nose, huffing like a horse, and flattened his hands across John’s chest. “All’a this. Startin’ somethin’ so…” He paused, trying to find the right words. “Dangerous.”

John huffed an amused breath and wrapped his hands around Arthur’s arms.“You’re a real downer ya know?”

“Yeah, and you’re a brat.” Arthur retorted lightheartedly. 

“Shut up. You know you love me.” 

Arthur paused for a moment. He went still, silent, and John thought he’d made a mistake, taken it too far. “S-sorry I...was just kiddin’ around.” He began to clarify awkwardly.

Arthur opened his mouth and made a choked noise, quiet and short. Like he was going to say something but stopped himself. Instead he just hugged John tighter, brought him closer and kissed the side of his neck. 

“S’getting kinda cold.” John shivered and tightened Arthur’s arms around him. They were wet, it was getting late and dark, and the flat plains around them carried the swift air over their bodies. Arthur hummed in agreement. 

“Can you walk?” Arthur asked.

John nodded his head. 

“Let’s go make camp then, get away from all this.” Arthur released his hold on John, who immediately missed his warmth. “Come on Marston.” He outstretched his gloved hand to John, who was still sat in the dirt. John groaned at the pain in his bicep as he moved, even though his left arm was the one he used to pull himself up. 

Arthurs hands where strong and firm against John’s hips as he lifted him onto his horse. The ease of the movement made John feel like he weighed less than a prairie chicken. “Thank you.” He said sincerely as Arthur saddled onto his horse. He got a polite nod in return, and they headed south. 

Arthur quickly set up camp, hidden in the trees in between Diablo Ridge and Riggs Station. The ground was even and flat, though not sparse of brush. The only warmth now was from the fire as two filets of fish roasted on the metal rack. John shivered and wrapped his arms around himself, scooting as close to the fire as possible without burning his knees on the flames. 

They quickly ate around the fire and then crawled into the tent. They laid, now mostly dry, on top of the two bedrolls pushed together. John was still shivering slightly, which concerned Arthur. He laid down on his side, and opened his arms. “Come’ere.” He ordered. John looked at him for a moment, mostly forcing himself to believe that it was okay to lay against him. 

John laid on his side, his injured arm to the air, and sighed softly when Arthur’s warm arms wrapped around him and pulled him against his chest. For some reason he couldn’t stop thinking about what Micah would say if he saw them like this. He couldn’t stop hearing the insults and threats being thrown at them in his voice. He thought about Dutch, Hosea, Abigail...what would they say if they knew? 

Arthur must have noticed John’s silence, he pressed his lips to his forehead and asked him what was wrong. Arthur’s worrying for him made him wonder...what changed? Ever since he’d come back Arthur had hated his guts, and rightfully so. He’d bullied, mocked, and pestered him until they got to Horseshoe. Then after that first night together...he’d gotten softer with him. Kinder. The obvious answer was because they shared the same bad habit with each other, but he wasn’t treating John like he would a whore in a saloon. He was treating John like a damn lover. 

“S’nothing…” John answered dishonestly. He was answered with a gruff sigh, and asked again. 

“It’s nothing Arthur, really.” He protested. Again, Arthur gave an irritated sigh and began to sit up. John pressed his hand against his chest and held him still. “Arthur…” He whispered, unsure what he was planning on saying. But it didn’t matter, Arthur filled the empty space between his lips with his own in a soft yet passionate kiss. Arthur pressed his lips firmly against John’s like he never wanted to forget how it felt, but held back his fangs and claws like he was afraid of breaking him. It was nothing like the energy of the other times together, the fierceness and haste was gone. Tonight, Arthur had John’s cheek in his hand, and was rubbing along his scars with the pad of his thumb. He hummed and moved his lips against John’s until their lungs tightened painfully from lack of oxygen. 

Arthur pulled only centimeters away from John, hand still cupping his cheek, lips still barely brushing together. John’s chest was on fire, heart beating in his ears, veins flowing with electricity as he looked at Arthur and bit his bottom lip. Immediately John was missing the feeling, and pressed them back together with enough pressure to shove Arthur on his back. He laid half over him, hands roaming his wide chest as they kissed. His clumsy, thin fingers pulled and popped the buttons on Arthur’s summer blue summer shirt. John opened his eyes when he felt Arthur’s hand around his wrist. 

“Arthur what-”

“You’re sure this is what you want?” Arthur asked seriously.  _ Where did that come from?  _ John thought. Arthur didn’t seem so concerned with that the first time, what was different now? 

“Yes Arthur. I want this.” He agreed and struggled his hand free from Arthur’s. It was grasped again before he could reach the next button, and John sighed in irritation. “What?”

“Me, John. You’re sure you want  _ me _ ?” That’s when he realized why Arthur suddenly cared. They weren’t just fucking anymore, it was far more intimate than that. 

John smiled softly, fingers twisting into Arthur’s shirt. “Yeah Art, I want you.” 

Arthur’s hand moved from around John’s wrist to cup his cheek again. He kissed him softly, sliding his tongue across his lips and slowly twisted until John was on his back against the bedroll. Above him, Arthur sat on his knees and slowly unbuttoned John’s vest from the top down. He tossed it aside and took equal care with his union suit and jeans. When he was finally fully undressed, everything lay in a pile on the dirt beside them. Arthur was still dressed however. The top three buttons of his shirt that John had managed to pop open spread his collar to either side, revealing teasingly just the top of his pecks. 

John reached his hands up to finish the job and as he did Arthur leaned over him to kiss his neck. John’s fingers fumbled weakly as he was distracted by the feeling of Arthur’s lips against his neck and his fingers scratching lightly along his sides. Arthur moved with him to push the shirt past his shoulders, and John thought about the differences in this time compared to the first. 

There was none of the same roughness from Arthur. He wasn’t bruising in his hold, impatient, or harsh in his movements. He worked with John, treated him gently, undressed slowly, and took his time admiring every part of the man beneath him. Arthur tossed aside his bottoms, revealing his hard member standing out in the cool air. He paid no attention to it yet, however, Instead he pressed his left hand into John’s hip, and his right wrapped around John’s own sex. 

John mewled appreciatively at the feeling and canted his hips up. Arthur smirked and stroked up languidly, less like he was trying to please John and more like he was admiring it. “Look at you…” He mumbled and leaned back down over John. His lips and teeth went back to the underside of John’s jaw, slowly leaving a path of light red marks down to his collarbone. He didn’t speed up his stroking of John, but moved his hand from John’s hips to search blindly the ground next to him. He felt the leather of his satchel and dug clumsily inside, until he felt the 

shape of a gun oil canister in his fingers. He popped the cap with his thumb and momentarily removed his hand from around John’s cock to pour it over his fingers. 

John whined impatiently at the loss of contact, then jolted with a whimper at the feeling of Arthur’s wet fingers against him. He gripped Arthur’s shoulders and tilted his head on it’s side, revealing his scars. It was strange to him...confusing how John could suddenly be feeling shy about something they’d done twice before. John couldn’t remember a time he felt this way, not even with Abigail. This was...special. It was the first time John had felt truly vulnerable yet at the same time, safe with his partner. 

“You okay?” Arthur asked him softly, pulling John from his thoughts. John opened his eyes and nodded. Arthur pressed one slicked up finger into him, feeling him tighten and twitch around him. John’s body had gotten accustomed to the feeling and he let out a quiet moan at the feeling. Arthur felt okay to push in a second finger, and John replied appreciatively by twitching his hips upward and panting his partners name. 

Arthur soothed John with kisses as he fingered in and out of him, widening and stretching his fingers around his walls. His fingertips scraped his sides as he searched for the spot that made John scream. 

“ _ A-Arthur! _ ” John cried, wrapped his arms around Arthur’s neck, and jolted in pleasure. His cocked bobbed against his stomach, jealous of the attention John’s ass was getting. “There! There Arthur….” He breathed. Arthur kissed him against the neck. 

“S’alright Johnny...I gotcha.” He whispered soothingly in John’s ear, earning a slow nod. ‘“There we go...good boy. Are you ready?”

John nodded again and tightened his fingers into the hair at the nape of Arthur’s neck. Arthur was forced to awkwardly and clumsily more his hips to get to John’s entrance without being able to lean up, but he wasn’t going to even try and pry out of John’s grip. He aligned his cock with John’s entrance and slowly pushed in. The gun oil lubed his cock as pressed in, taking short breaks every inch or so for John to adjust to it. Soon, Arthur’s hips where pressed to John’s. His breath came out hot and short against Arthur’s neck until he began to slowly pull out, and Arthur felt it stop. “Breath darlin’...I gotcha.” Arthur soothed. 

John let out the long, shaky exhale he’d been holding in and loosened up a bit. Arthur pulled out and slowly sunk back into John, picking up his pace with every thrust until he was confident John was alright. John held his lips tightly shut, moaning inwardly at every thrust. He was trying hard to keep himself quiet. 

“Just us John...let me hear you.” Arthur ordered and punctuated it with an especially hard thrust directly into the special spot. John opened his mouth wide in a loud moan. His fingers traveled up the back of John’s head and tightened around his hair, his ankles wrapped loosely around John, and he whined long and low. 

“A-Again Arthur  _ please _ …” He begged and tilted his hips up into Arthur’s thrusts. Arthur chuckled and wrapped both of his arms around John’s shoulders and behind his back, being careful of his injured arm. He used his new angle to thrust himself harshly into that same spot, and listened appreciatively to John’s wracked voice screaming his name. He favored John by lowering one hand to wrap around John’s cock. 

_ “Fuck _ -Arthur!” He groaned when Arthur stroked him at a speed matching his hips. “Arthur...Arthur I love you! I love you Art- _ please yes- _ I fucking love you Arthur!” He confessed again, caught up in the pleasure. Arthur moved his other hand from behind John’s back to hold his cheek. He turned John to face him, and looked sincerely into his eyes. 

“John...John.” He panted. “I love you too.” He pressed his face into John’s shoulder and pounded harsher into him as the hat coiled in his gut. It winded tighter and tighter and Arthur pushed his hand faster over John and hips harder into him. “Love you _ so _ much Johnny...so  _ fucking  _ much.” Arthur confessed again, becoming addicted to the freeing feeling. 

John came first, hips spasming into Arthur’s fist as he cried and moaned Arthur’s name, rewarding him for his confession. He saw white as Arthur followed, spilling inside of him with John’s name on his lips as he bit into John’s neck. His hips slowed as he rode out the feeling, until he pulled out and plopped over on the bedroll beside John. They both panted breathily, minds catching up with the events. 

“Art…” John finally spoke up and turned to face him. “Arthur...hey.”

Arthur looked to him and smirked, stricken by how gorgeous he looked. “Hm?” He hummed.

“Do you...really?” he asked shyly. 

Arthur huffed in amusement and turned on his side to pull John into him. He kissed his head, rubbed his back and nodded in reply. “Yeah Johnny. I really do.” 

“I...I love you too.” John replied, muffled by Arthur’s chest. Arthur chuckled.    
“I know.” 

They lay there together in comfortable silence, and Arthur’s almost fallen asleep when John clears his throat and speaks up. “We don’t have to go back tomorrow right…?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I just… I dunno. Can we stay out here? Just one more night?” John looked up at him, cheeks pink from the exercise. How could Arthur say no to that face?

“Ya know what? Sure. Sure Johnny.” John kissed his head again and closed his eyes. They fell asleep, wrapped up in each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm not super in love with this chapter but I'm not sure what else I could do to make myself like it. I am glad to have finished this fic though, and super appreciate everyone who's kept up with it!

**Author's Note:**

> So, this was my first rdr2 fic! I'm sure it's not perfect and there may be some bad characterization and typos and weird phrasing, buuut I haven't written in a long while. I'm getting back into the groove of it. I like it enough though! And I hope you do too!!


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